


every animal

by kyrilu



Category: Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: Community: 007kinkmeme, Hair Kink, Kidnapping, Kink Meme, M/M, Non Consensual, Non-Sexual Kink, Overstimulation, Sensation Play, Stockholm Syndrome, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-29
Updated: 2012-11-29
Packaged: 2017-11-19 19:49:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,473
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/577004
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kyrilu/pseuds/kyrilu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He’s a sniffling, snotty heap of a once-proud MI6 agent, but Silva kisses the space of skin near his hairline like he’s beautiful.</p>
            </blockquote>





	every animal

**Author's Note:**

> For [this prompt.](http://007kinkmeme.livejournal.com/1142.html?thread=9590)
> 
> So.
> 
> Um, yeah.
> 
> No actual rape takes place in this fic, but it's straight out non-con in that Silva is happily torturing Q's very, very sensitive hair.

In the morning, Q drags a comb through his hair carefully, and he knows how to angle the teeth just right so that it doesn’t fuss at the brown strands. He puts a bit of product on the bangs, straightening, smoothing, and everything’s in the right place when he examines himself in the mirror.

He strolls out of the door, his bag loped over his shoulder and sagging against his hip. He’s got his usual mug of tea in his hand, sipping at it quietly while he occasionally he looks down at the phone, checking his email.

He doesn’t expect the cloth at his mouth when he’s about to open the car door, and he definitely doesn’t expect the murky darkness that he sinks into.

His mug crashes to the pavement, and the last sound he hears is the glass, breaking.

 

*

 

“Finally awake?”

Q blinks to a dark room, and he thinks that maybe it is morning, and maybe he’s just getting up. But he recognises the voice -- deceptively gentle, and when he moves his hands, there’s metal cuffs on his wrists.

Fuck.

This isn’t good. This isn’t good at all.

“Mr. Silva,” he says, attempting to maintain a calm facade. “Nice to see you again.”

“You remembered me!” Silva says, as if delighted.

 _Of course I do_ , Q wants to scoff, _I’ve been programming and hacking and working my arse off to help MI6 try and capture you, you git._

But he’s not exactly in that sort of position to say that, so he says instead, “I’ve only met you in person once, haven’t I?”

“Hmm, yes. I caught a glimpse of you in front of the London Eye last week with Mr. Bond. You looked charming in that vest, by the way.” Silva cradles a hand under his chin, thoughtful. “Nice work dismantling the bombs.”

“Thank you,” Q says, on reflex, and then curses himself for responding. But he is rather proud of his handiwork, and stubborn, sullen Bond hadn’t bothered to say thank you, and it’s quite flattering to have the compliments of an internationally known cyber-terrorist--

That’s a strange train of thought that he quickly puts a stop to immediately.

Silva smiles. As if he can guess the inner workings of Q’s mind, and if Q had the option, he’d start running away fucking now. “Well, we’ve been acquainted through other means, as well. You’ve been studying footage of me for a long time, haven’t you? Like what you see?”

Q shrugs; he winces when the movement causes his arms to chafe against the handcuffs, digging into skin.

“I apologise for the restraints,” Silva says amicably, “but we wouldn’t have an opportunity to chat without them. You’d run away, of course, and that wouldn’t do.” He leans over, and he runs a fingertip over the scratched skin of Q’s right arm.

Q steadies himself into the touch. “They’re going to come for me,” he says. “I’m supposed to be at work by now. They’ll see you on CCTV.”

“It’s not going to be that easy, my dear boy,” Silva says, and of course it isn’t, but who’s to say that MI6 is stupid? “You realise that their best resource in tracking me is you, and you’re--” He gestures at Q vaguely.

“Kidnapped,” Q supplies. “Captured. Tied up.”

“We should appreciate our time together, Q,” Silva says, as if this is an agreement. “I told you that I’m a fan of your work.”

This time, his fingers go to Q’s head, brushing against his hair, and Q gasps, the sensation so warm and sudden and _filling him up_ \--

“Interesting,” Silva says, his voice a low purr, and Q can feel the bottom of his stomach crashing and he wants to fucking black out already, fall into a mindless oblivion. “Hmm. Somebody’s fond of receiving a little petting, now, hmm?”

“No,” Q manages to bite out. “Bloody hell, you’re a fucking creep, has anybody told you that?”

Silva’s eyes flash. “Watch your language, Q.”

And his fingers spin across the expanse of Q’s throat, and he knows where they’re going this time; he leans back as far as he can into the chair, but the sensations flood in, fingers stroking back and forth, back and forth in his hair. His eyes are getting heavy.

“I think I can begin to understand Mr. Bond’s obsession with perky, young things, my dear boy. There’s something new about them. Something irresistable to be found.”

Q concentrates. He’s the fucking quartermaster; he has a mind -- he’s not going to cry like a little child. He bites his lip and he can taste the blood on his tongue. He reminds himself how many computer languages he’s fluid in, and he starts to encode messages in his head.

Binary code is a mess of one-zero-one-zero-one-zero-zeros, and he thinks of the programs he’s built, the programs he’s modified and tore down. C++ and BBCode (html and xhtml) and all that knowledge compressed into a glowing computer screen.

But Silva’s fingers are gentle and prying, and Q whimpers, curling in on himself, his cheeks burning with humiliation. The handcuffs feel like they’re slicing him open as he continues to struggle against them, and maybe they’ll pierce a vein and he’ll bleed out and maybe he’ll die--

“Stop,” he says, and he hates that he’s quickly and easily reduced to fucking begging. He’s not a goddamned field agent; he’s not 007. “Mr. Silva. _Please._ ”

“You remembered your manners,” Silva says approvingly, and Q thinks he could almost cry with relief when Silva’s hands still. “Good boy. You see? It’s simple. Follow the rules, Q. Watch your tongue. If you don’t -- well. You don’t want to feel that again, hmm?”

“No,” Q says, his voice dull and lifeless. He knows how this goes. He’s heard horror stories of MI6 agents’ tortures and captures; he’s watched those stupid police procedural dramas that have officers taken and threatened. “Shit, I’ll -- I’ll cooperate, Mr. Silva.”

“Good boy,” Silva says again, and his fingers dance on Q’s temples, so _close_ to his hairline, but not quite there. “I expect that this’ll be fun, yes?”

 

*

 

In the early light of the next morning, Silva catches Q fumbling with the ancient electric socket of his horrible, cramped cell, trying to find the right wires to use as a weapon.

Silva clucks his tongue. “Oh, dear boy. You promised me yesterday, Q. And now you betray me once you leave my sight? That’s just not right. That’s just not fair.”

Q musters the best glare he can, pointed and sharp and harsh, but Silva has Q’s stupid little Achilles’ heel in his arsenal, and all he can do is press against the wall, his wrists chained to a pole. 

“Apologise, Q.”

“I’m sorry,” Q says flatly.

“There wasn’t an ounce of sincerity there, dear boy. Not even a tear. A sniffle.”

Silva pulls, this time, lunging forward and twisting his hair, the pain spreading from tip to root. A handful of hair here, and handful of hair there, pain and pain and pain, tingling on every single millimetre of his head.

He tries to think about maths. Simple problems. Multiplication tables -- one by one is one, one by two is two. Every single theorem and property that he’d memorised through the years, and he grounds himself in the variables, but there’s only so much he can shut out.

Q chokes. It’s dizzying, the fingers creating patterns of motion on his scalp, mussing and messing and patting. He finally sobs, brokenly and openly, his hair a patchwork of hurt and _too much_.

“Shh, shh,” Silva says, infuriatingly gentle.

This is the first time he makes Q cry.

 

*

 

The awful thing is -- this isn’t even traditional torture. He hasn’t been beaten, maimed, stabbed, drowned, or poisoned. He hasn’t been forced to break into MI6’s tech system. And even if Silva seems to make vague sexual passes at him, his prick remains untouched.

Lucky him.

He thinks that he might reach a point when he’ll find traditional torture preferable, but he probably can bear this for a while. (He doesn’t know how long.)

It’s pathetic and pitying, nevertheless, and if James Bond was in his place, he’d have escaped a long time ago.

But Q isn’t James Bond.

 

*

 

Silva lets him take a shower tonight, and of course, there’s a guard at the door, and no electrical appliances in sight. Q reluctantly turns on the water, shedding his clothes. He climbs into the tub, shivering like mad until the water heats up.

Q washes and scrubs at the dirt and dust, breathing in the scent of soap. It’s almost comforting as he slowly cleans himself; and he feels like he could be home, almost, basking in warm water after work, satisfied once a mission has been completed.

Then he realises that he doesn’t want to -- _can’t_ \-- touch his hair.

There’s foam bubbles in his hand and when he tries to bring it up, his hands shake. He fucking flinches -- he can’t get any closer than two millimetres away before he loses control of himself. Of his own bloody body.

He doesn’t know how long he’s there, the now cold water streaming from the showerhead, hands paralysed and hair unwashed.

The door opens, and Silva sees him and seems to understand immediately. “Oh, dear boy. You should’ve called for me. I didn’t realise that I hurt you that much. Traumatised, are you?”

Q stares back at him, and in the bathroom mirror, he sees how brown his eyes are, how lost he looks. He doesn’t want this. He doesn’t want to look so vulnerable -- he doesn’t want to be vulnerable, but that’s exactly what he is and he can’t do a damned thing to change it.

“Let me help,” Silva murmurs, and he takes the soap out of Q’s hands. Everything looks ridiculous, laughable, in that moment -- Silva, still in his impeccable white suit, holding a bar of soap -- and he orders Q to sit down in the tub, to angle his hair in his direction.

Silva lathers the soap into his hands, wetting it, forming foam.

He softly rubs circles into Q’s hair, and Q lets this _fucking happen_ again, and when he does cry, he can’t stop, even when Silva pulls away.

He thinks he wants the flood to drown everything out, a rush of roaring white noise that’s half-lulling and half-destructive, that takes him in more than the bright luring glow of a computer screen and lines of code. Fucking _code_ , fucking _want_ ; he’s a system with a shiny new habit twisted into his very core, and he can recite pi for minutes on end, but there’s something simple horrible easy about letting go.

He’s a sniffling, snotty heap of a once-proud MI6 agent in a bathroom tub, but Silva kisses the space of skin near his hairline like he’s beautiful.

“Tomorrow, little Q,” Silva promises him.

 

*

 

Silva takes out a laptop and swivels around in a black imposing arm chair and makes Q kneel at his feet, handcuffing him to the chair leg.

He writes Q’s name in ASCII art, lazy random characters that says _q-u-a-r-t-e-r-m-a-s-t-e-r_. When Q reciprocates, Sila digs his nails into his hair when he sees it reads viciously vindictively bitterly: _T-I-A-G-O_.

He’s read files on Silva late into work nights and out of work nights; he can name hundreds of programs that Silva has put into use during any of his jobs; he can name the programmers who designed those; he can name the type of computers and laptops used--

He babbles Silva’s sins out loud, when Silva fucking _pets_ him arbitrarily, but all he receives is a wry chuckle, or perhaps, his hair is untouched for a long stretch of time, which is enough to send him into something like a panic attack.

(They _are_ fucking panic attacks, but he really can’t fucking admit it, not really.)

 _p-a-t-h-e-t-i-c_ , he spells out on Silva’s laptop, his fingers itching on the keys to create cyber universes under his palm, but there’s a hand in his hair reminding him.

Silva laughs.

 

*

 

Q remembers scrawling designs of dental cyanide capsules, new and improved versions for the more recent agents. His model is quite modern, more smaller and sleeker and hidden, and death was ninety-nine percent ensured, compared to the previous statistic of ninety-eight.

“You’re two percent,” he tells Silva, inexplicably, when the man pries open his face to _show._

He wonders which model Bond wears, whether he got it updated or not, but that’s a morbid thought, and he pushes it away.

Here’s one reason why he’d rather be a field agent.

 

*

 

His panic attacks worsen when Silva’s away from him more than four hours, and Silva, ever the gentlemen, cuffs Q to the head of his bed and they sleep like that, curled around each other, Silva’s hand on top of his head.

It’s warm.

 

*

 

Four hours becomes two. Two hours becomes one hour.

Q calls Silva by his false first name: _Raoul_ , and the man is pleased.

Inside he calls Silva by the name that hurts him, and he likes to think that he has that advantage like M or Bond or even the ever-knowledgeable Moneypenny.

Tiago Tiago Tiago.

 

*

 

Silva fits him into tight fitting white suits and twines ugly ties across his neck. He dresses Q like a doll, laying out the clothes on the bed for him, then brushing Q’s hair before a mirror just to make sure that Q sees himself and the way he begs.

Q ponders the possibility of collecting one, two, three ties, knotting them together to make a noose that’ll fit more snugly than all the suits put together.

 

 

*

 

One hour becomes thirty minutes.

Silva takes him around the world: a constant fixture, a mascot, while he knocks down companies with every jab of an enter key, leaving MI6 fumbling in his wake.

When Silva falls asleep, head on the keyboard during a particularly exhausting venture, Q reaches over and finishes the program for him.

Then he moves Silva’s slackened hand to his hair, and sleeps.

Silva pats him and addresses him as a _good boy_ in the morning.

 

*

 

He thinks that he sees Bond by the end of the seventh month, while he’s looking out of a hotel room window and watching for Silva. There’s really no one else who has eyes that blue.

He mouths the word _hey_ into the glass, and waits for someone to come for him.

(He honestly doesn’t care who.)

 

*

 

“Every animal is grateful for kindness and petting, and they wouldn’t _think_ of hurting a person that pets them. [...] Why, you can get him so, in a little while, that he’ll love you; and sleep with you; and won’t stay away from you a minute...”

 

\-- _The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn_ , Mark Twain.

 

*

**Author's Note:**

> This fandom makes me write the kinkiest things.
> 
> Bless you guys.


End file.
